


These Violent Delights

by snowkatze



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: First Kiss, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Poetry, Romeo and Juliet References, Simon is in Denial, i included a wayward son quote but no spoilers, simon has a crush on young leonardo dicaprio, this is what i became an english major for
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-06 03:01:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21219479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowkatze/pseuds/snowkatze
Summary: Simon is watching 'Romeo and Juliet' in Magic History and he watches Baz write something on a paper. Later, Simon finds the paper and sees that Baz wrote a romantic sonnet. Who is he in love with?





	These Violent Delights

Leonardo DiCaprio is one gorgeous bastard. I've always thought so, when I was watching Titanic with Agatha during the Christmas holidays. (I think she wanted me to hold her hand. Maybe she wanted me to see what an epic romance looks like. I missed the cue. On both accounts.) He also makes one hell of a Romeo. Like, I get why Juliet would lay down her life for him. He's wearing a medieval knight costume to a party on screen. He's got a cheap fake sword, too, but unfortunately, he's not using it. It's not really that interesting, right now. Nobody's getting stabbed.  
Juliet is so enamored with Romeo. She's such a fool, really.  
Baz' hair is blocking the corner of the screen. It's fluffed up and soft on top of his head.

I've stabbed goblins, trolls, merwolves, a dragon, once... I've never been to a party. Baz would look good in a knight costume. Or with angels wings. Demons wings, maybe. Is that a thing?

Baz is taking notes, because of course he is. Even when we're watching a movie in class. Penny's right next to me, she's not taking notes. I'm not taking notes. I mean, we all know the story, right? Romeo and Juliet fall in love, their families have a feud that any Family Feud host would keel over because of, in the end they kill each other or something... Baz turns his head, and I can see that his hair falls in a swoop over his forehead. How tragic...  
Maybe I'll end up stabbing Baz. I just hope he'll - ...

I really should have held Agatha's hand when I had the chance.

I try to drag my gaze back to the screen, but the top of Baz' head is pretty distracting. Maybe he sat in front of me on purpose, so I couldn't see. He knows damn well how tall he is.

Baz is well fit – I mean – Romeo is – I mean – Juliet. No, Agatha. I like _Agatha_. Merlin, what is wrong with me?

Romeo's not _that _ fit, obviously. I mean, in a way, yeah. In a, I'd like to have arms that strong, way. In a, I'd like to have _eyes that bloody gorgeous, what the hell?_  
The director's called Baz, apparently. I didn't know there were people called Baz. Not so unique now, are you, Baz? I guess he's not actually called Baz. I don't suppose there's anyone else called Tyrannus Basilton bloody Grimm-Pitch. Bummer.  
Baz would make a great director, for sure. He's great at yelling people and ordering them around, for starters. He's also great at everything.  
Wow, they're talking for so long. Someone stab _me._  
Crowley, his hair is so nice. I want -  
I want his shampoo.  
What the fuck is he writing? Is he already doing the homework? Sneaky bastard. Maybe I should call him out. Maybe _I _should start on the homework.

I start poking Penny with a pencil.

“Sod off,” she says.

I turn back to the screen. There's some argument. Two of the guys start punching each other, Romeo tries to go between them...

“Who's that?” I whisper to Penny.  
“Tybalt and Mercucio,” she whispers back. “Merlin, have you been watching at all?”  
A scratch? What is happening? Is this guy _dying_? My eyes are drawn to the screen. Suddenly, I feel unusually cold.

'_A plague on both your houses_...' he says...  
I grip the sleeve of my sweater. I watch as Mercucio dies, I watch as Romeo gets revenge on Tybalt... I watch Romeo and Juliet in the chapel...  
Baz sits up straight. He has stopped writing.  
I watch as Romeo drinks posion, thinking Juliet is dead... As Juliet reaches out for him...  
I thought Romeo's eyes were blue before, but in the close-up of his face when he's dying, they look kind of grey, almost like Baz'... I grip my sleeve tighter.  
I watch as Juliet shoots herself.  
But I can't watch the back of Baz' head anymore. I focus on the other corner of the screen and don't look away until the bell rings.  
What's wrong with dancing and parties?  
The screen goes black and my gaze snaps back to Baz.

Why does someone always has to get stabbed?

He's shoving his stuff in his backpack, all except for the paper he'd been writing on. He crumples it and throws it in the trashcan by the door. I keep looking at the door, even after he's gone.  
“Simon?”  
It's not an inevitability, is it? Romeo and Juliet, dying...

“Simon?”  
I mean, I knew, of course. Everyone knows. Romeo and Juliet die in the end.

“Simon.”  
It couldn't go any other way.  
“Simon!”

I snap my head around. Penny is looking at me. Why is she looking at me?  
“Simon, are you – crying?”  
Her eyes turn soft now. I try to unclench my jaw.

“No, I -”

I unclench my hand and touch my cheek. My fingers come back wet. Oh.

“It was just...” I start. “Just such a sad story.”

“It's Romeo and Juliet,” she says. “It's _the _sad story.”  
“I know,” I say. “I was expecting it, ob– obviously. But it still – still hit me like a ton of bricks.”

A truckload of bricks. A mountain of them. Even though I was expecting it.

I'm overwhelmed with the urge to count the days left until the end of the school year. How many days before...

I shoot up out of my seat.  
“How many hours til lunch?” I say and smile at Penny. She smiles back, but I can tell she's still cautious.

“You can't go a minute without thinking about food, can you?” she says and we start walking out of the class room. She tells me about what sentences from Shakespeare she thinks you can still make spells out of. She doesn't notice when I stop at the door. No one's left in the class room. No one sees when I duck down and pick up the crumpled paper Baz put in the bin and shove it in my pocket.

I catch up with Penny.

So, that was that for Magic History. I grab the strap of my backpack a little tighter than I usually would.

I think I'll have sour cherry scones for lunch.

___

  
After last period, I go to the restroom and perch myself up on the toilet seat. With jittery hands, I pull the crumpled paper from my pocket. I unfold it carefully, then close my eyes. Why did Baz throw this away? It can't just be notes, then. Baz wouldn't throw away his notes, unless he'd copied them carefully into his notebook before. Whatever is on this paper, Baz didn't want anyone to see. It's probably nothing. Just scribbles or maybe a sketch. I shouldn't do this, right? But – it's Baz.

I open my eyes and read.  
  
I am your Petrarchan sonnet, you are my Shakespearean tragedy

<strike>We are no star-crossed lovers but  
(You were the sun and I was crashing into you)</strike>

Ne'er dare there escape me no greater sigh  
and ne'er there be a lost soul more forlorn  
than me, gazing into thy pale blue eye,  
thou art my most cherished oxy-moron  
<strike>I call you tedious fool though the only fool is me</strike>  
  
<strike>you are my downfall</strike>  
<strike> (it's not the only way I fall)  
</strike>How unfair for thy image to be fair  
Sanguine, for thy hope, for I am out for blood  
I will bear this burden, for I am bare  
to the snow that burns me, the words that cut  
  
<strike></strike> <strike>I wish we could run,</strike>  
<strike> my love runs deep, </strike>  
Fearing how soon we will run out of time  
Thy face when thou say'st ' _wow_ ' makes me say ' _woe_ '  
I, your antithesis, thou art my rhyme  
<strike> There's no reason </strike>  
Stake my heart, deliver thy killing blow  
  
  
<strike></strike> <strike>Upend me with bronze curls, torturous lips</strike>  
<strike> When thou bitest thy thumb but never thy lips</strike>  
Upend me with smiles, the beauty thou art,  
fuck you and curse what thou doth to my heart  
  
I read it twice. Except for the words he's crossed out, I don't really know what it means. But I do recognize the form and rhyme scheme. We talked about it in Magic History just last week. It's a sonnet. We're watching Shakespeare, and what does Baz do? Write a fucking sonnet. The pretentious arsehole. The complete wanker.  
Maybe it's a coded message and this is the key to uncovering one of Baz' plots. That would make sense of the fucking _gibberish_ it is. Maybe someone else was meant to pick it up out of the bin. But there'd be easier ways if he wanted to pass something on to Dev or Niall. Maybe he meant for me to find it. No.

I don't fully understand, but my throat runs dry when I read it again. I feel cold again and I bite my lip because I feel like I'll make some noise otherwise.  
_Love_ . He crossed it out, but it's still there. Baz is talking about _love_. Aleister Crowley.

Baz doesn't love anyone, or anything. He's a vampire. They _can't_. Maybe he was making fun of sonnets. Or of Romeo and Juliet. It could be like – creative writing. Fictional. Unreal. But it just feels a little too – honest.

Baz loves his mother. He talks about her like she hung the moon. He loves playing football. He's so fucking good at it, too. He loves school, he puts his entire soul into it. (He has a soul.) He eats Salt and Vinegar Crisps at night.

Crowley. He's in love with someone. No. He's _tragically_ in love with someone. I don't know what to think.

Who? Who would Baz Pitch write tragic sonnets about? Who does he love so much? Is it Agatha? It has to be Agatha. Maybe he thinks he can't be with her. Crowley, why does he make it sound like such a tragedy? He's in love. He should be soaring. He should be happy. He could have _anyone_ . (Well. Not anyone. But it's not like he wants me.)  
I realize I've hidden here for quite some time; Penny will be worried. I fold the paper carefully in put it back in my pocket. I make my way into the dining hall. Penny is frowning at me, but she's saved me some sour cherry scones.

“Where were you?” she asks.

“What's a Petrarchan sonnet?” I reply.

She pushes the plate with the scones to me.

“They're usually about unrequited love,” her frown deepens. “And they often include oxymorons.”  
Unrequited love... Baz is in unrequited love? Impossible.

I know what a Shakespearen tragedy is, obviously. It's the plays that don't have a happy ending. The ones that are... tragic.  
“Oxymoron,” I say. “What's that?”

“It's a self-contradiction. Loving hate, and that kind of stuff. Why? You need help studying? We can meet up later.”  
“No, it's fine,” I say and start picking one of the scones apart. “Was just wondering.”  
_I am your antithesis_... your opposite... Agatha isn't Baz' opposite anything. They're both posh and fancy. Only that Agatha's nice, and Baz is not. (Too much, anyway.)

_ Stake my heart _... That's so dark. Why would Baz write stuff like that? He can have the dances, and the parties, and the fool-headed love. He can have everything.

I wonder why he's underlined the 'moron' in 'oxymoron'. Is he calling them a moron? Maybe they're thick... Baz probably thinks anyone not as smart as him is a moron. That could be anyone, except for Penny.

I've pulled the scone into tiny pieces. I'm not hungry right now, which never happens. But I don't need to eat. I need to know who Baz is in love with. I _ need _ to.

“Simon?” Penny says. She's frowning again. “Are you alright? You're not eating?”  
No.

“Of course. I just, uhm... Need to get some homework done.”  
“Are you keeping something from me? Remember, no secrets.”  
“It's... It's not my secret, okay? Just trust me.”  
If I showed Penny, she could figure out for sure who it's about. But for some reason, I don't want to. Baz is not in the dining room.

  
___

Baz is sitting on the bed, and all I can think is that he's in love with someone, and he writes sonnets about them, and he calls them moron and the sun and beautiful.

And he thinks he's going to run out of time.

Baz is a hopeless romantic. I didn't think he was before, but now I can see him on candlelight dinners, with roses on Valentine's day, Baz going to the movies, Baz holding hands... Baz has long, slim fingers and his hands are rough and beautiful. _ Beautiful _. I wonder if I could write a sonnet. Not a fancy one, but...

“Baz,” I say and clear my throat.

He looks up from his book and cocks an eyebrow at me.

“Get lost,” he says.

“I just – I -”  
I pull the paper from my pocket. He drops his book and his eyes widen. He must know what it is, even before I've shown him what it is.

“Where'd you get that?” he demands, but his voice is shaking. He sits up and walks towards me. Not confidently, like usually. His gaze flickers around. His hand reaches out, but he doesn't grab it. (Juliet's hand reaches out...)  
“I just – I found it -”

“Crowley, Snow, you ever hear of privacy?”  
Usually, he would snarl at me. Usually, he would just grab the paper from me. I've never seen him lose composure like this.

“Who is it?” I say. My voice is shaking, too. Suddenly, his face snaps shut and his hand shoots forward. I let him take it. It's his. (I know it half by heart.)

“None of your business. None of this is.”  
“Who is it about?”  
“Nobody.”  
He stalks back to his bed, conversation over. Not for me.

“Tell me.”  
“No.”  
“Please.”

He stops talking and picks up his book. I know he's trying to ignore me, but I'm not going to let up. I can't.  
“Why do you even care?”  
He's not giving me an inch.

The arch of his brow is perfectly formed.

Romeo kills Juliet's cousin. Doesn't that make him a villain, of sorts? It was self-defense, in a way, but still. Shouldn't she hate him? But she loves him anyway... She's such a fool.

“I think you should tell them.”  
“Have you read the poem at all?”  
“It's not...” I say. Swallow. “I think you're wrong.”  
“I'm never wrong.”  
“Agatha and I aren't together anymore, if you're worried about that.”  
He's staring at me. His mouth is hanging open. It's Agatha. It has to be.

“Simon...”

“It's Agatha, isn't it?”  
I feel like crying. His jaw snaps shut.

“Merlin, no,” he says. Is he denying it? No. I think he's serious. (He's giving me an inch.)

“I just... I just think you have a chance.”  
Agatha doesn't have blue eyes, or bronze curls. I don't know why I didn't think of it earlier. Who has blue eyes and bronze curls?  
“I don't,” he says.  
“Did you tell them?”  
“Ha.”

“Then how do you know?”  
“I just do. Leave me alone.”  
He turns away. I won't let him.

“I just want to help. Let me help.”

“Snow.”  
He sounds so exhausted. Of course he is. He's _ yearning _for someone.

“You don't understand anything.”  
I want him to call me Simon again. I want to go over to his bed and – do – something. I sit on my own bed and growl at him.

“Maybe I could ask them,” I say. “What they think about you.”

“Merlin, Snow, you want to be my wingman?”  
“I guess.”  
“You're ridiculous.”  
“I'm right.”

_ Call me Simon. _

“We're not even friends.”  
Right. But not even my worst enemy should be so – so _ desperately _in love. It must hurt so much. (It hurts so much.)

“We could be.”  
“Don't be insane.”  
I wonder why he's not picking a fight with me. He's dismissive, but not vicious. I think I've made him vulnerable.

“I'm not going to fight you,” I say then. I'm not going to cry again. I won't. I draw my knees to my chest.

“Of course you're going to fight me,” Baz says. His voice is almost soft.

“You're not going to run out of time,” I whisper. “Is that why it's a tragedy? Because you think you're going to die? You won't. I won't let you.”  
“Simon,” he says.

_ Stop calling me Simon. _ I'm going to cry.

“Are you having me on? Do you really not know who it is?”  
“No.”

“Are you trying to spare me...”  
“What?”  
“Nevermind. Not even Bunce could figure it out?”  
“I didn't show her.”  
“Then stop thinking about it.”

“I cant,” I say. Baz' whole face is tense.

“Just pretend this never happened. Treat me the same as before. It doesn't matter. It doesn't change anything.”

It does, though.

“It's not just your poem,” I say. “I just... I don't want us to be Romeo and Juliet.”

“Do you even hear yourself?”  
“You know what I mean. I don't – I don't want to hurt you.”

“These violent delights...”

I flinch. _ **These violent delights have violent ends ** _ is a forbidden spell. When someone is fighting, it kills or heavily wounds both parties. Baz curls in on himself on his bed, but he keeps his gaze fixed on me.  
“I don't want to fight you. Are you going to fight me?” I ask.

He pauses and keeps looking at me.

“You really haven't figured it out, have you? Crowley, you're such a moron.”  
A moron? My breath hitches. No. What am I thinking? What the hell am I thinking?

“Who is it?” I say again. “Who's your downfall? Your rhyme? The bloody sun?”  
He closes his eyes, lips drawn together.

“Stop mocking me,” he rasps out.

“I'm not. Please. I just want to know.”

He opens his eyes a crack and sighs and I know that he's giving in. I'm holding my breath.

“It's you, you fucking numpty.”

I freeze. Everything freezes. I must have misheard. I must have a brain disease. It's impossible. (But I have blue eyes. And I guess my hair could be described as bronze. And if anyone's going to end Baz, it's me. Nobody's going to end Baz.)

“The snow that burns me...” he whispers. “It's your fucking name.”

_ Baz is not in love with someone else. Thank fuck. Thank Merlin. Thank Aleister fucking Crowley. _ I can't do anything but stare at him. Baz shakes his head.

“I never should have written that stupid sonnet. But... I couldn't help myself. It was Romeo and Juliet.”

_ I'm his Shakespearen tragedy. _ Nicks and slicks.

I sit up and am over on his bed in an instant. He looks alarmed.

“Snow – don't,” he says quietly. He's laid his heart in my palm. He's written a sonnet about me.

“Lets do this, then,” I whisper. I want to lean in and kiss him.

“Do what? What are you talking about?”

He looks like he wants to scoot away from me, but he doesn't move. I want to grab him by the shoulders and never let go.

“Today in class, all I could think about was you,” I say.

I want to let go of his shoulders to bury my hands in his hair.

“About how much you want to kill me?” he says, a self-deprecating tone in his voice.

“No. About how I _ don't _ want to kill you. Mostly about your hair.”  
“What about my hair?”  
He touches it self-consciously. I want to take every bad thought out of his brain and throw them to the merwolves.

“About how I want to touch your hair.”  
I lean closer.

“About how you're more beautiful than Romeo.”  
I carefully raise my hand. He doesn't move away. His hair is _ so soft _.

“About how Juliet is a fool for being in love with a villain.”  
His eyes are _ so beautiful _. He lets me take his hand.

“But he's not a villain,” I whisper. “Not really.”  
“Snow,” he says stiffly. “You do know – that Romeo and Juliet is a cautionary tale.”

“If it's really – if you're really – then I don't care. Is it really about me?”  
I lean in even closer until my nose nearly touches his. Does he want this? Do I want this? I do. So much. For how long have I wanted this?

“Yes,” he chokes out. “Of course it's you. Who else would it be?”  
“How? How can you -”

I want him to lean forward. I'm so short of grabbing him by his shirt. And then he gives me another one of these sighs, and I know that I have him. _ Just give me the word _ . _ Just give me the word, and you can have it all. _

“How do I love thee?” he says and his hand comes up. My nose brushes against his. “Let me count the ways.”  
He runs his fingers through my hair. It's so good.

“I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach,” he says.

He's reciting poetry at me. Merlin.

“And this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart,” he mutters. “I carry your heart. I carry it in my heart.”  
His lips are cool against mine. I press into him. I want him to have it all. I want to put my heart on a platter and let him take it.

“I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair,” he says. It's like he's singing. “I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body. I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.”  
Is that a vampire thing? I don't care, he can have it all.  
“Our love it was stronger by far than the love of those who were older than we, of many far wiser than we,” he says. He's singing into my mouth. “And neither the angels in heaven above nor the demons down under the sea,” his breath goes heavy, “can ever dissever my soul from the soul of the beautiful Simon Snow.”

His voice is enchanting. I grab him and _pull_. I want to tie our hearts together. Chamber by chamber.

“What's in a name?” he says. “That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

It's Romeo and Juliet.

“With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls, for stony limits cannot hold love out, and what love can do, that dares love attempt: Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me.”

“Do you mean that?”  
“Yes. I mean it all. The Mage, his men, my family, no one can stop me. No spell can stop me. No sword.”

“You need to stop,” I say, but I'm smiling. “You're going to make me cry.”

That only spurs him on, of course. Baz has always loved making me cry.

“My bounty is as boundless as the sea, my love as deep; the more I give to thee, the more I have, for both are infinite.”

I'm addicted to his lips, and to the smell of cedar and bergamot.

“Dost thou love me?” he says then and pulls back a little to look at me. There's a question in his eyes. And I don't know any poetry by heart. (But I want to give him everything.)  
I make a noise in the back of my throat and try to think of something stupidly romantic to say. He's reciting love poetry at me. He wrote me a sonnet. He's given me every love confession there is. How am I supposed to top that?

Baz' lips turn down at the corners.

“Sorry,” he says, squeezing my hand. “I got carried away. You don't need to answer.”

He goes in for another kiss, but I put my hands to his chest and push him away.

“Sorry,” he says again. “It's just part of the play. I forgot myself.”  
He swallows and looks down.  
If I took every single dark thought of his, the merwolves could have a feast.  
I grab his face and he looks back up at me. His heart is in my hands. He's so eloquent, he knows a thousand ways to say that he loves me. He loves me. He loves _ me _. I can't believe I've never thought of this before. (Maybe I have.) It's the best idea ever.

I only have one word.

“Yes.”  
“What?

“Yes, I dost love thou.”  
He smiles.

“That is so not how it works,” he says.

“Then how?”  
“I can't remember,” he says and giggles. Aleister Crowley. He's my Romeo.

“Do we have to be a tragedy?” I say and pull him in again. “You think?”  
“No,” he says and laughs. It's the most beautiful sound. “We can be anything you want us to be. I could cast a sonnet right now.”

“You wrote one. You wrote me a sonnet. That's embarrassing.”

I laugh, too.

“Shut up,” he says. I'd cross every line for him. And I embrace him and his hair tickles my neck and I tell him to talk poetry to me and deep into the night he whispers sweet everythings into my ear. I'm a fool for him. I'll take him to the school dance. I'll put him in a costume. I'll keep him safe and sound. I'll hold his hand. I'll run my fingers through his hair.

I refuse to believe we're star-crossed lovers.

This time, I believe, the stars are aligning just right.

**Author's Note:**

> Yep. It's true. Last week, I had a lecture in my English literature course on 'Romeo and Juliet' and sonnets and I only half-listened in order to write a sonnet from Baz' perspective. You're welcome.
> 
> Poems that Baz cites are 'How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43)' by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, '[i carry your heart with me(i carry it in]' by e.e. cummings, 'Love Sonnet XI' by Pablo Neruda and 'Annabel Lee' by Edgar Allen Poe, and of course 'Romeo and Juliet' by William Shakespeare.


End file.
